


Hold Hands, Wish the Snow Away

by sciencebutch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Incredible Hulk (2008), The Incredible Hulk (Comics), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Banner-centric, Character Study, Child Abuse, Comic Book Science, F/F, Hurt Bruce Banner, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Psychological Torture, Torture, aka gamma bomb and NOT the serum, comic book origin, everyone is trans and gay Dont Test Me, thor holds bruce in his big strong arms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14070708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencebutch/pseuds/sciencebutch
Summary: Bruce was never a religious person.At least, he wasn't until a certain god came along.OrIn which the Avengers raid an army base looking for a weapon of mass destruction. They find it of course; success is expected from a team of super-geniuses and superhumans.What wasn't expected was discovering that the weapon was really a man.





	1. Cold Through Broken Baseboards

**Author's Note:**

> **in case you didnt read the tags, this fic is very angsty. don't read if you get triggered by torture or abuse (please stay safe ily)**
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           Pain was all he knew. It was a familiar feeling, one that had nestled into his bones and bored its way into his skull; one that spread across his body like fire, blazing through his nerves without remorse. It both grounded him and sent him whirling into a vortex of mania at the same time, and he was sure this was what going mad felt like; a brain full of contradictions and opposites, a mind constantly fighting against itself. A paradox.

            _If that’s what being mad consists of_ , he mused, _then I’ve been mad for a long time_. He briefly thought of the acidic green that used to be present constantly, bubbling in response to every stimulus, opposing and fighting actively against each notion he held. It was now reduced to an inactive sludge at the back of his mind that made him feel unbalanced and incomplete.

           A shout echoes behind him, and he flinches, immediately being brought back to the present, where alarms roar and his bare feet clap against tile. Where blood glues his clothing to his legs and waves of hunger protest every movement he makes. Adrenaline is pumping through him so desperately that he would transform if he could, let the beast take over and rip and kick and _smash_ all that got in his way.

           Instead, however, he runs, runs urgently through labyrinthine hallways, past myriads of steel doorways, turning sharply at corners, trying to find the elevator, the exit, anything that will help him leave the hell he has been trapped in for…

           He doesn’t really know how long he’s been imprisoned down here. At least a month, he figures. But for all he knows, it could have been a day, a week, a year. Time matters not when you are miles underground. In fact, nothing matters when pain envelops your brain and suffocates your lungs and snaps your bones and—

           And shoots him in the shoulder. He gasps and stumbles forward, eyes wide with agony and mouth agape in shock. He almost stops, but he keeps going, only looking back briefly to see the soldier who shot him, not looking forward, not noticing the man who stands like a brick wall in front of him. No, he keeps sprinting forward, slowing only marginally, and slams into the man who he’s been trying desperately to avoid. Ross towers over him and grips him tightly, squeezing the fresh wound on his shoulder, and the smirk that mars his face makes ice trickle down his spine and freeze his blood.

           “Hello Bruce,” he says, and Bruce can only swallow thickly before being injected with something that makes him feel so, _so_ tired. His subconscious slips gratefully into the void, while the logical part of his mind protests, fighting and clawing, screaming “ _No! We need to escape, please don’t fall asleep, please don’t, please…”_ He's quickly overpowered as the tranquilizer engulfs him, and he slumps into General Thaddeus Ross’ arms.

* * *

 _Brazil was frankly quite beautiful at this time of year; it was neither too hot or too cold, the sun was blotted out by white clouds, and all of the flora was lush and green. Bruce could hear merchants advertising their wares and conversations spoken in Portuguese that Bruce could only partially understand. He had been here for nearly a month now, and he enjoyed how crowded and loud everything is. It makes him feel secure. Admittedly, he would feel safer if it wasn’t for the constant thought of ‘_ what if I hulk out and kill everyone here?’, _but his selfishness always overrode that feeling as he thought of going back to another military base, where everything was sterile and whitewashed and artificial. So, instead of turning himself in, he hid in crowds and tried to draw as little attention to himself as possible._

_He keeps walking when a commotion erupts behind him, and he ignores the expletives yelled in Portuguese; a fight occurred almost every day, and in the beginning it would cause him to spiral into an anxious oblivion, rubbing his hands together frantically while on the verge of hyperventilating, but he has since grown used to it. It isn’t until he hears someone yell “Catch that man!” that Bruce is sent sprinting through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of protest from the civilians he pushes out of the way._

_He turns into an alleyway--a stupid move, but he can’t think straight while trying to keep the Other Guy down in his panic--and his stomach sinks when his mind registers that he is cornered. Trapped with no way out._

_The soldier chasing him comes into view and Bruce is just_ standing there, _dumbstruck, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, staring at his pursuer with wide eyes that were just_ slightly _tinged with green. The man raises his weapon, takes aim, and fires._

_The tranquilizer hits his stomach, and Bruce is unconscious before he even hits the ground, unable to prevent the darkness from enveloping him..._

 _He jolts awake, and a wave of nausea washes over him when he realizes that he can’t move his arms, or his legs, or his head, and_ oh God he can’t move, he can’t move and there was something around his neck and he was suffocating, and he couldn’t breathe and—

            _His panic is briefly interrupted by someone coming into view, blocking out the light flickering above him and the linoleum tile ceiling that has an odd fungus just beginning to grow._

 _“Hello,_ Dr. _Banner,” the man spits the word “doctor” as if he is disgusted that such a freak of nature could get a Ph.D. Bruce groans in response and blinks the sleep from his eyes. The world comes into focus, the_ man _comes into focus, and he gasps in realization and starts spazzing in his bonds, subconsciously trying to escape the person looming over him. General Ross smiles wryly and arrogantly before he opens his mouth to speak again:_

 _“It took us a while to find you, you know. For someone who can turn into a monster,” Bruce flinches, “you are quite a difficult creature to locate.” Ross leaves his sight and begins fiddling with something in his arm—‘_ oh God,’ _Bruce thinks frantically,_ ‘is that a needle oh my GOD’— _Bruce lurches and a hiss of pain rushes past his lips when the needle digs into his arm further._

_“Sorry,” Ross says, not sounding very sorry at all, “I have to make sure this is in properly, can’t have you escaping again.”_

_“W-what is—” Bruce is cut off when the needle pokes his humerus, and he gasps in surprise. He tries to turn his head, but the strap around his neck chokes him if he moves even the slightest bit. All he can see is the General in his peripheral, clad in his crisp military uniform. Ross answers his unfinished question, his tone dripping with a chilling sort of arrogance that gives Bruce goosebumps._

_“This is something that the scientists on staff thought up,” he says lightly, “it is supposed to keep the Hulk completely at bay, while also removing some of the regenerative abilities you possess.” He moves back into Bruce’s direct line of sight, as he says: “however, no matter what is done to you, you will not die,” he grins broadly, showing all of his teeth, “it is quite a genius concoction, and we shall find out soon enough if it works.” Bruce can only stare, mind reeling, as Ross pats his cheek and walks out of the room. The door slams shut behind him, and Bruce is left alone, trembling violently, mind paralyzed with fear._

_The green that coats his mind dissolves and Bruce is completely on his own for the first time in years. His thoughts echo in his head and he feels dizzy._

* * *

When he wakes up after his escape attempt, he is imprisoned once more, arms pinned to a table and feet tied down. Tears sting his eyes as they threaten to fall. He had been so close. So close to leaving, so close to freedom. His mouth twists into a grimace, and his eyes scrunch shut with grief. The hopefulness that had previously buzzed through him, invigorating and electrifying, was gone. Now he feels naught but emptiness. Loss consumes him, and he lets out a pitiful whine. Nothing can help him, nothing can free him.

He’s stuck here, a prisoner, forever.

A chuckle resounds through his cell, menacing and chilling, and Bruce winces, recognizing it immediately.

“That was quite the escapade;” Ross states, appearing in Bruce’s peripheral, “very thorough. How long did it take you to plan?” He leans over Bruce, his sneer all Bruce can see. Bruce is silent--he doesn’t know if it’s out of rebellion or fear--and Ross’ smirk turns sour.

“You don’t have to answer, I’m sure you don’t even know how long you’ve been here,” He was right, “but I can’t have you running again.” The sound of a blade being unsheathed reverberated through the room, and Bruce sees the General raise a saw, its point gleaming and _sharp_. “I do hope you understand.”

Those were the last words that Bruce registers, for shortly after they were uttered, pain seizes him, radiating throughout his body from his legs. At first, he tries not to scream, tries not to let that _bastard_ know that he’s won, but his attempts are fruitless, and he shouts and shouts and shouts until his throat is sore, and then he shouts some more. His body briefly tenses and his screaming halts as he hears a sickening ‘ _thunk!_ ’ that sends a jolt of shock through him, before he is plunged into absolute agony--pain far worse than anything he has ever experienced, tormenting and twisting and _ripping_ his insides--once more.

An explanation of disgust escapes from Ross’ lips as he momentarily pauses his torture, and over his own urgent gasps, Bruce realizes that he can hear something drip onto the floor. _Blood_ , he discerns, _my blood_. Bruce feels sick, and if he had eaten anything recently he would have surely thrown it up. Instead, he gags and dry heaves.

“Did that hurt, _Dr. Banner?_ ” Ross asks with mock sympathy dripping from his voice. Bruce let out a weak whine, before whispering:

“ _Please stop, please stop, please…”_ he repeats it over and over again, a mantra said in short breaths, before Ross chuckles.

“I’ll consider it.”

The pain resumes, and Bruce is inundated with agony once more.

* * *

 _On occasion, he would be released from his fetters and allowed to wander his cell freely. The first time Ross removed the strap that dug into his neck, Bruce wheezed in relief, glad to no longer have the weight pressing on his throat. The needle was removed from his arm, and when the General left the room Bruce sat up immediately, only to fall back over, famished body--he estimates that he hadn’t eaten in a week-- unable to support his own weight. The abrupt movement jostled the gashes on his stomach and arms and_ everywhere _, and he could feel blood--warm and thick and sticky--ooze from his wounds._

_With trembling arms, Bruce sat up, slowly and methodologically, cringing in pain, and inspected his body for the first time in ages._

_It would be apt to say that he resembled a Jackson Pollock painting. Bruises were smeared across his chest from where his ribs had been broken, and swirls of yellow and purple dotted his skin. His shin jutted out grossly from his leg at an almost 90-degree angle, and his nails had been removed from one hand. The pants that he woke up in were cut off at the knee and were stiff and brown with dried blood. These injuries were inflicted by the scientists, who loomed over him with cold, steely eyes and muttered numbers and words that Bruce would have understood if he were not mad with pain at the time. They would enter the room with white lab coats, and leave with red ones. They were remorseless and unfeeling._

_The worst of all of it, however, were the cuts. They had been slashed into his skin in the form of insults. Words such as ‘monster’, ‘abomination’, and ‘freak’ marred the entirety of his body. Every so often, Ross would enter the room with nothing but a knife and laugh and laugh and laugh as he carved abuse into his torso and limbs; using his blade as a pen and Bruce’s blood as the ink. He would tell him that he was doing this as revenge for nearly ruining his career. Bruce just thought that Ross had gone maniacal._

_Bruce started when a plate of food slid under the prison door. He was too nauseous to eat. The smell of refried beans reached his nose, and he bent over, trembling and weak, as he dry heaved over the steel medical table._

* * *

        Bruce woke up on the floor. It was cold, and the chill seeped through his threadbare pants and infected the abrasions on his skin. He was in pain and starving and thirsty, but none of that was new. Bruce tensed when he heard footsteps muffled by the steel door, but relaxed when food—cafeteria grade; meatloaf and undercooked brown rice, no eating utensils, as usual—was pushed underneath the doorway. He went to get up to retrieve it, only to yelp in pain and fall back. For the first time since waking up, he notices it: the bloodied bandages wrapped carelessly around thighs that extend down to the kneecap and—

His legs are gone.

It takes his mind a while to register it. He stares, eyes empty and callous, until something _clicks_ and now Bruce is screaming until his throat is hoarse and he can’t scream anymore. He tries to crawl backward, tries to escape this hellish reality he has woken up to, but he doesn’t move because he was already hunched in the corner and _his legs are gone_.

He folds into himself, crying and sobbing and sniffling. He wants to leave, he wants to escape, he wants to _die._

Bruce wishes he could say that he didn’t flinch when Ross walks in.

* * *

 

_The hairpin gleamed in his hand, sending tremors of exhilaration through him. This was the seed that had germinated and sprouted into an escape plan. He stood trembling from hunger and nausea and nervousness, his fingers fiddling with the doorknob. The lock on the door clicked, and he left his prison. Bruce was three doors down when the alarms went off._

_He sprinted, limping on his broken leg that had just begun to heal, ignoring the jolts of pain that shot through his body; hope and adrenaline being his anesthetics._

* * *

        Ross walks toward him slowly and deliberately, every step like thunder in Bruce’s ears. A whimper threatens to escape from Bruce’s lips. He can’t see the smug smirk on the General’s face, but he can _feel_ it sneering at him as he says:

        “Look at you, a beast who can level entire cities, reduced to this pitiful state.” He kicks Bruce’s stomach, opening fresh cuts and sending Bruce spiraling into memories he wishes he could forget. “It’s pathetic.” Ross spits, and his voice echoes through Bruce’s head, mingling with his father’s slurred words, and he can’t help but feel nine again, bombarded with kicks and yells and _abuse_. He tries to disappear, tries to squeeze himself into a form that would be too small to kick, an instinct that had been instilled in him since childhood. He tenses, preparing for the next blow, and he realizes that he’s openly sobbing, his throat raw and his voice gravelly from the strain on his vocal chords. Ross kicks him again ( _his father strikes him again_ ), and now Bruce is shouting, begging for him to stop.

        “Please stop…please…” His voice cracks every other syllable.

        ( _“Stop! Stop, please! Dad stop!” his voice is shrill and frantic._ )

        There are shouts outside the room

        ( _Mom screams at Dad to stop, Dad shouts back, raising his fist to strike. Mom says that she’s leaving, and she’s taking Bruce with him.)_

Ross stops his torment, but Bruce doesn’t notice it, still entwined in memories.

        ( _Mom grabs him and pulls him outside, still shouting at Dad.)_

Alarms begin to roar through the hallways.

        ( _Dad grabs Mom and pushes her down on the driveway, the sound of her skull smashing across concrete ringing in Bruce’s ears._ )

Red lights blink on and off.

        ( _Red, dark and thick and slow, pools on the sidewalk, glimmering in the light from the lamppost._ )

        Gunshots ring out, but Bruce notices not.

        ( _There’s blood and it’s everywhere and—_ oh God there’s so much of it— _it flows down the driveway and puddles around his feet_.)

The sound of punches and metal hitting metal can be heard from outside the door, which has been left ajar.

        ( _Bruce stares at the gore before him_.)

        Something charges with a high pitched whine, then fires, flying and hitting its mark.

        ( _He screams._ )

        Bruce screams.

 


	2. There's Gonna be a Party When the Wolf Comes Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chap is less heavy lol
> 
> title is from Up the Wolves by tmg

It wasn’t as if Thor was grumpy at having been woken up at 4:00 AM. In fact, he could--and would--argue that he was a morning person. But as JARVIS politely wakes him up with a “Good morning, Master Thor, the time is four-oh-six AM, and Sir has requested all Avengers be in the common room promptly for a mission debrief. The weather is currently…” Thor couldn’t help but groan as he stepped out of bed, smacking his lips tiredly. He stretched, muscled arms over his head, as he tries to remember the dream he was having; it had been a good one, too--and wasn’t that a surprise, he had been having far too many nightmares of late. It had something to do with dogs, wide expanses of wildflowers, and he thinks that Heimdall had been there for a while, as well.

  _Ah well_ , he thinks, _duty calls_.

Thor rubs briefly at his tired muscles, wincing as he grazes some of the wounds on his skin; he still hasn't fully healed since the fight yesterday. Sure, it had been small--a minor scuffle, nothing more--but it had been brutal. Well, it had been brutal for him, at least; Thor was the team’s tank, so he had absorbed most of the damage done in that battle. He doubts that the others know how that feels, to be the main target of the enemies malintent, to be the one accepting the punches. Of course, they didn’t know, they were weak and fragile; easy to kill. _It’s okay,_ he thought, _I am an important member of the team; I protect my friends from dying, and I do not care if I am the person most hurt. I do not care, I don’t care, I do **not**. _

As Thor stands in front of the mirror, clad in rumpled flannel pajamas, glaring at the black eye that mars his face, he decides that he _does_ care. He wishes that it wasn’t just him being stabbed or shot at constantly, solely because he could take it. His chest is coated with a plethora of flesh wounds, and his torso protests as he slides on his armor. The cuts on his chest compliment the velvet cape on his back quite nicely. Thor’s face is in a frown as he leaves the room. He hadn’t even bothered to shower.

No, Thor absolutely _was not_ grumpy.

* * *

The common room is awash in the yellow lights of the city, and the expensive furniture is silhouetted against the bright and boisterous aura of New York. It is scintillating and blinding, even though the sun had yet to rise. Thor never could get used to how artificial everything was; from the starless sky, cleared of twinkling lights save for the occasional airplane, to the wood of the coffee table, which is smooth and waxy. It unsettles him and makes him long for the wide expanses of forests and mountains on Asgard. Homesickness gnaws at his heart as the elevator doors slid open, accompanied by JARVIS’ announcement of “Master Thor has arrived, Sir.”

All of the Avengers stare at Thor as he enters, muttering “good morning” and other such pleasantries at him. He responds in turn, noticing that he is late to the meeting, which Tony decides to mention, in his usual fashion.

“Good morning Goldilocks, how was your beauty sleep?”

Thor glares at him; he may not have understood the reference, but he does understand sarcasm when he hears it.

“Good morning, friend Tony,” he says civilly, too tired to quarrel with the billionaire.

“Are we done?” Fury’s face looms over all of them on a holoscreen, looking stoic and expressionless, with a hint of impatience, as always. No one responds, so Fury begins his briefing, and Thor listens attentively so he could stay informed, so he could help his team, his _friends_.

(Although, he couldn’t help but think that they weren’t his friends; not really. All he can think of is being maimed and hurt, with everyone else escaping relatively unscathed. An odd emotion washes over him, and he realizes that it is the nauseating feeling of being exploited.)

“-- a weapon of mass destruction is being held at a military base in New Mexico. Intel says that it is stored 20 floors underground in a high-security room, but it does not specify exactly _what_ the weapon is. I need you to infiltrate and retrieve it so that it can be in the security of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Romanoff is updated on all of the minute details and she can brief you on the Quinjet.”

“Why do we need to steal a weapon from the military?” Steve asks, still stubbornly loyal to the army, despite not being a member of the ranks. Fury, probably already predicting that this question would be asked, wastes no time in responding.

“Because it is under the custody of General Ross, a man who has been reported to have gone a little haywire. He is too indispensable to get rid of, so I have been ordered to just remove the weapon from his care.”

“I remember working with the good ol’ Thunderbolt, and I fully agree with your sentiments,” Tony adds, looking a bit pensive and serious (for once).

Thor has no idea who this “Thunderbolt” person is, but he loads onto the Quinjet anyway, summoning his hammer to his grasp. It is heavy in his fist, a comforting weight. His hands crackle with electricity, and for the first time that morning, Thor can’t help but feel excited, looking forward to the feeling of the thrill of battle burn through his veins.

He could take this man--this General--down easily, he was the god of thunder, after all.

* * *

White halls were illuminated with flashes of red, and the blaring of alarms harmonized with the ringing of gunshots and repulsors firing. Static electricity danced across Thor’s skin, crackling and shocking and _alive_. A soldier in front of him collapsed, gripping the arrow now lodged in his leg, and Thor turned back to look at Hawkeye, who winked. He smiled, laughing openly, as his hammer flew through the hallways, incapacitating the opposing force. They had been instructed to cause as little casualties as possible. Thor agreed wholeheartedly and followed through with no hesitation. Mercy is a virtue of the utmost importance, and a tactic carried out by the wisest of men.

Thor caught a glimpse of a man, suit sprinkled with red—blood, laying on the floor, the boot of Black Widow holding him down. She explained something to him, face deadly and threatening, and the man nodded with a slight smirk on his face, before issuing a command that caused Thor’s opponents to stand down with a salute. The alarms halted shortly after. _He must be General Ross,_ Thor thought, as he stepped through the throng of soldiers to see what was going on, absentmindedly summoning his hammer back into his hand.

“Where is it?” Agent Romanoff asked, voice filled with venom. When she spoke like this, with poison dripping from every word, Thor remembered why she was called the _Black Widow._

“Where is what?” Ross asked with a smug sneer on his face, somewhat unperturbed by the spider looming over him, ready to ensnare him in her web.

“You know damn well what,” she smiled a sarcastic, tightlipped grin that almost—almost—sent shivers down Thor’s spine. The blood from the battle had clotted her hair, which was frizzy and tangled, and her eyes sparkled dangerously, hard as emeralds.

Thor secretly commemorated General Ross’ bravery for not crumbling in fear.

“ _Oh_ ,” the man laughed, giggled at a joke that only he was privy to, “you mean my… ‘ _weapon_ ’.” He wheezed, partially from humor and partially from Agent Romanoff’s boot, which was still on his stomach.

He decided to cut into the conversation then, using his most commanding voice, “Yes General Ross, where is it?” he brandished Mjolnir intimidatingly, and his brow wrinkled in confusion when the man stopped giggling and started outright cackling.

“Ah…I knew the government was going to send in more _freaks_ to deal with me…but I thought—I didn’t—” at this point Captain America and Iron Man joined the fray and seemed just as puzzled as Thor was at this wholly unpredictable man. Ross took a deep breath before continuing, “You don’t know what the weapon is, do you?” His leathery face crumpled in humor and insanity, and Thor wondered why this man was even in the military, let alone a general.

Stark, speaking through Iron Man’s metallic twang, said: “Just tell us what the damn weapon is, Ross.”

“Ah, Stark, I see you have joined the team of freaks too, how—” He was cut off when a scream, loud and hoarse and panicked, reverberated through the halls. It sounded so wild, so feral and _scared_ , and everyone froze as Ross stopped laughing and smirked.

Iron Man’s helmet retreated and then it was just Tony Stark, who spoke, his teeth bared.

“ _What was that, Ross?_ ”

The General’s face turned sour, filled with wrath and something that wasn’t _quite_ right, as he whispered:

_“Your ‘weapon’.”_

Captain America looked sick through his cowl.

* * *

Bruce knew that Ross had heard him screaming, had heard him crying, had heard him breaking. He knew that he would stomp in here with his thunderbolt footsteps and then he would be thrust into torment and then it would all happen again the next day. Nothing mattered except for the pain.

His sobs stopped when he heard the door open further. The light blinded him and burned red into his eyelids. And Ross walked in.

 _Step._ It echoed in his mind, swirling and twisting and pulling at his sanity.

 _Step._ The reverberations shook him to his core like an earthquake.

 _Step_. This was all life was, it was footsteps and lashes and bruises and—

“Hello? Are you alright?” A baritone cut through the mania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gay for natasha but only the fanon version of her (@mcu Perish.)


	3. Rise in the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't proofread this if you see something wonky Tell Me Please
> 
> (trigger warning for torture stay safe)

The alarms had stopped, but Ross’ footsteps remained. They sent lightning through his veins and set every one of his nerves on fire. They echoed through his head like whispers, like questions and phrases and words that pricked his brain like thumb tacks and pushpins. Every warped syllable swirled around him and suffocated him. He was hyperventilating; inhaling and exhaling sharply, and his brain felt as if it had somehow turned into cotton. He was panicking but he couldn’t stop because _Ross_ was _here,_ and Bruce couldn’t deal with this anymore, he couldn’t deal with the thought of never being able to walk again, of being stuck here for eternity, scared and scarred and in pain.

Before this, he would do anything to get rid of the Hulk; now he would do anything just to get him back.

The steps grew ever closer, forming earthquakes that sent violent tremors throughout his body, and his heartbeat pulsed at three times its normal speed.

And then there were words:

“Are you alright?” They were laced with concern, which was filtered out by Bruce’s fear-stricken mind. The footsteps were all he perceived, for they meant impending pain. Everything else didn’t exist. It was just Bruce—weak, pitiful, broken Bruce—and the slow clicks of soles against tile. _He was freaking out, he couldn’t stop trembling, he couldn’t stop he couldn’t stop God please just let it stop…_

And then there was a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and he noticed that the touch was warm and gentle, hesitant, and that unfamiliar feeling of compassion pushed through the fog of insanity. Bruce opened his eyes and blinked the tears off his lashes. The person who touched him was tall and blond and was wearing a red cape and it wasn’t Ross.

It…wasn’t Ross. Bruce gasped and sat up abruptly, staring, mouth agape, at the figure before him. He tried to speak but couldn’t, for his teeth were chattering too hard and his throat had been scratched raw by screams.

“Friend, are you alright?” The man’s voice was heavy like molasses and crackled like electricity and was soothing like peppermint tea and it wasn’t Ross’ gravelly tone that reminded Bruce of cigar smoke and gunpowder and war. His heart fluttered with hope, and a cold flash of adrenaline shot through his vein. It wasn’t Ross. _It wasn’t Ross._

Bruce opened his mouth to answer the man’s query, to say _‘do I look alright to you?’_ , to ask a billion questions, but instead what emerged from his throat was a simple:

“W-who are you?” His voice cracked and fell short on the first syllable, and Bruce was sure he looked pathetic, laying on the tile, propped up against a marred elbow, unable to walk or move, blood— _his_ blood—caked in the grout lines. He was sure he looked pitiful, looked weak and deplorable and like a _freak_ . But then again, when had he ever _not_ looked like that?

“I am Thor.” His hand was still on Bruce’s bruised shoulder, a weight that was warm and grounding and…and…

And dangerous; not for him, but for the stranger who had offered him kindness. He shook Thor off him, whispering—for his voice was completely gone at this point, “ _You shouldn’t touch me._ ”

* * *

_He had been here for a few days now. The drug they gave him made him feel heavy and uncoordinated—not that it really mattered; he still hasn’t left the chilled medical table they had chained him down on when he first got here. His tongue was swollen in his mouth from thirst, and his stomach was twisted in knots from hunger. The red light from the security camera stared at him, and he glared back, hoping that Ross would be on the receiving end of his poisoned look._

_He refused to break, he refused to give Ross the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He hadn’t seen the General since his first day here, but he knew that the man was there, always watching him. Watching as the scientists pulled his spleen from his abdomen, watching as they tore the skin off his hand like a glove. Waiting for him to cry out in pain._

_They made comments as they worked, apathetic observations to their cohorts who would furiously scribble down their words. One would remark, “all scars prior to the first transformation remain,” the scratching of pencil on paper would echo through his head and mess with his sanity. “Scar tissue on forearms is old and permanent…” And on and on it went._

_His arm froze as the drip began again, forcing ice through his veins and numbing the beast in his head. The potency of the drug made it so that it only had to be pumped into him twice a day, and Bruce was quite unsure how he felt about that, for he was positive that if it were in a constant stream he would be completely comatose, which is a plus when every waking hour is filled with pain._

_Suddenly, the clicks of combat boots outside meddled with the white noise of the air conditioner, and Bruce steeled himself for what was to come. The bolt slid, the door creaked open and then slammed shut. He flinched at the noise, and his eyes strained desperately to the side to catch a glimpse at the person who entered. A sneer, cold and deadly and wolf-like, greeted him from beneath a mustache. Ross._

_“Hello, Dr. Banner,” he said, voice bitter and sharp. Bruce didn’t reply, choosing to just stare blankly up at the flickering fluorescent lighting on the ceiling, opting to wait out his visit. If he ignores him, he will leave._

_Or so he hopes._

_Ross lets out a petulant sigh, something sardonic and dangerous. “Ah, how low I have fallen…even_ monsters _won’t talk to me.” He spits out the word “monster”, voice saturated with bitterness, and then there is the harsh sound of a blade being unsheathed and then Ross looms over his empty stare, his leathery face all Bruce can see, and then…and then…_

_Well, it all goes downhill from there._

_The first cut surprises him; it’s on his collarbone and it’s deep and he feels the blood, warm and sticky, roll down his rib cage. He gasps, in both shock and pain, and Ross smirks._

_“It hurts, doesn’t it?” The question was accentuated with another cut to his chest. Bruce grits his teeth and says nothing. Ross, sensing his discomfort, says:_

_“Good.”_

* * *

A worried smile, confused and awkward, finds its way onto Thor’s face. His hand doesn’t move. “Why shouldn’t I touch you?”

Bruce pulls his shoulder away from the man’s grasp. “ _Because,”_ he chokes out, _“I’m dangerous.”_

* * *

_His silence was an act of defiance, but Bruce knew that Ross could see that he was beginning to break. If he weren’t so dehydrated, tears would be threatening to fall._

_“Doctor,” the General said, his tone dripping with a sarcastic melancholy, “it saddens me that you won’t say it. It is the truth, and I thought it was taboo for a renowned scientist such as yourself to falsify data.” The blade, jagged and sharp, ripped into his abdomen, deeper than before, and Bruce’s muscles seized with pain. He breathed heavily through clenched teeth, trying to withhold a scream. “I mean,” Ross continued, unfazed, “the proof is all there: millions of dollars in property damage, billions of dollars wasted in military funds, countless innocent deaths…” He leaned in, loomed over Bruce, and said “So say it. Say you’re a monster, a freak of nature, and this will all stop.” Ross smiled, wide and sadistic._

_Bruce remained silent, breathing harshly. He couldn’t give Ross what he wanted, he couldn’t let him win._

_The General hummed dejectedly, “suit yourself,” said he, before shoving the knife back into his stomach._

* * *

“I’m sure you’re not, my friend,” Thor said, voice low and gentle.

Bruce did not reply, only pushed himself further against the wall.

* * *

_He could feel the words written in his skin. In fact, it was all he ever felt anymore. Ross carved into him like one would a pumpkin, and he had long given up the hope of holding back screams. His raspy voice mingled with the General’s who yelled at him to admit what Bruce has always known: he was a monster._

_A knock on the steel door reverberated throughout the room and meddled with the cacophony of voices within. Ross put down his knife, hands and sleeves covered in scarlet, before answering the person on the other side. The soldier whispered something to him, quiet and clandestine, and Bruce prayed that whatever was said would make Ross leave._

_Unfortunately, it did quite the opposite._

_He couldn’t see it, but he heard a fist punch a wall, accompanied by a shuddering breath. He heard the guard be dismissed, before Ross was walking, slowly and deliberately, footsteps echoing, back to Bruce. He held up the knife (a sliver of silver glinted beneath the fluorescent lighting, and his body was wracked with foreboding as he saw it), and absentmindedly wiped it clean with the handkerchief in his pocket, as he said, voice low:_

_“I have some unfortunate news for you, Banner,” Bruce looked at him with bloodshot eyes, afraid to do or say anything, “Betty has died.”_

_No._

_“She was comatose for a few months before the doctor decided to pull the plug.”_

No _._

_Ross peered at the knife, now wiped clean of gore, and asked:_

_“Do you know how she got in that coma?”_

_Don’t say it_ please _don’t say it…_

_Ross stared directly at him, his eyes piercing him worse than any blade every could “Why, it was all you, Bruce.”_

_After that, it took less than five minutes to get him to scream the words. After that, it took less than five minutes for Bruce to shout: “I’m a monster,” sobbing uncontrollably, knife still lodged in his gut._

_Ross smiled wryly, “Good.”_

_The General promptly pulled the knife out and left, door shutting loudly behind him, leaving Bruce covered in blood, sweat, and tears that had finally begun to fall._

_In hindsight, it wasn’t hard for Bruce to admit it; it was completely true, after all._

* * *

Thor cocked his head, smile still present, albeit a bit smaller. His eyes crinkled and something--concern? Sympathy? No, probably just pity--flickered through them.

“My apologies if this comes off as rude, but you don’t appear to be all that dangerous, friend.” He didn’t try to touch him again, but his hand hovered delicately over Bruce, as if he wanted to offer comfort through contact.

The sides of Bruce’s mouth quirked into a semblance of a smile; the first in what could have been months. “I suppose--” his words caught in his throat, and he coughed, “I suppose not.”

Bright blue met a dull brown as their eyes locked, and Bruce hardly flinched as Thor’s hands brushed his arm.

Thor cleared his throat, looking away, before saying the words that Bruce had desperately wanted to hear for a long time:

“Let’s get you out of here, hm?”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of updates recently!! when school ends i should be able to post more often haha


	4. Take to the Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started writing this in thor's pov but i realized i suck at writing and stopped.  
> 

The door was unbolted and slightly ajar. Lights, artificial and dim, flickered within. Over the din that surrounded him--Stark shouting, the deadly whisper of Romanov, Steve’s steady tone--the only thing that Thor heard were the screams emanating from the room that he now stood in front of. An intense feeling of foreboding ran through him. Seconds played out like eons and it felt like eternities had passed before Thor gathered the courage to burst through the door. The steel slammed across the cement walls and rumbled throughout the chamber like thunder.

Thor had to look around a bit before he saw the trembling form in the corner, emaciated and small. Blood--presumably this person’s--had dried and congealed on the floor, and scarlet poured unimpeded from the multitude of wounds that maimed his body.

Thor said the first thing that came to mind, too concerned to have any sort of impulse control:

“Are you alright?” (He obviously was not, and Thor inwardly cringed at the asinine remark.)

The person did not indicate that he heard his question; his eyes remained scrunched shut, tears still managing to escape their confines and blend with the blood smeared on his cheek. His shoulders were tense and quaking violently.

Thor attempted to quell the tension by putting a hand on his arm.

The man immediately flinched at his touch and sat up with the speed of someone driven by instinct and adrenaline alone. And that's when Thor saw it.

He had no legs.

Caught off-guard once more, Thor forgot to remove his hand and his mouth moved of its own volition:

“Friend, are you alright?” He wanted to slap himself.

The man was either too dazed to notice his fatuous comment or was focusing too hard on responding to him, for it seemed as if he was having some difficulty speaking. His cheeks were hollow and his lips dry as he whispered--voice too hoarse to speak, apparently-- “W-who are you?”  

“I am Thor.” He grinned good-naturedly, despite his solicitude.

The man said nothing in response. Quite abruptly, his eyes widened, and he stared at Thor’s hand on his shoulder, before shaking it off, as if burned. Thor retracted his hand hesitantly, still wanting to provide comfort.

 _“You shouldn’t touch me.”_ Thor’s smile became pained, his lips struggling to remain upright.

“Why shouldn’t I touch you?”

 _“Because I’m dangerous.”_  

* * *

It had yet to occur to Bruce that in order to leave, he had to be carried. So when Thor asked him, voice gentle and low, if it was alright if he picked him up, Bruce was perplexed by two things: one, it had been so long since anyone had minded his consent on anything, much less ask for it, and two, he didn’t _need_ to be carried; he was perfectly capable of walking on his own two legs--

 _Oh_ , he thought, bile rising in his throat, _right_. Realization, chilling and horrible, settled in his bones, and he could only respond with a minute nod, worried that a sob would escape his mouth if he were to open it. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears gathered on his lashes.

Bruce heard shuffling and felt hands on the small of his back and under his thighs, and _oh god oh god oh god, hands were everywhere poking and prodding and hurting, something bad was going to happen, something horrible and painful and--_

Bruce had to open his eyes to remind himself that it was just Thor, it wasn’t Ross with his knives or the group of scientists with their scalpels.

Calloused palms lifted Bruce off of his spot on the floor, and Bruce winced as his wounds were jostled by the movement. His skeletal arms clutched onto Thor’s neck with a tenacity that would pain the other if he was any stronger. And then Thor took a step, and another, and another until they were out of that ghastly room and into the corridor. Soldiers were scattered here and there, helping each other up, hobbling with sprained ankles and broken arms. Bruce cast one worried glance at them before Thor turned and walked down the hallway, carrying him bridal style. Anticipation and longing filled every fiber and crevice of his being.

Ross was splayed out on the ground, prone to the woman looming over him with a foot on his chest. A drop of blood hung from his mouth, and he appeared dazed. His mustache was twinged up into a smirk, but it slowly shaped into a grin in a blood-curdling metamorphosis when he saw Bruce. Bruce, legless and emaciated, cargo pants torn and hanging off of gaunt hips, with blood painted across his abdomen as if he were a canvas. He didn’t want to stare at this man any longer, but he couldn’t look away. One of the three figures crowding Ross, the one with a quiver slung across his back and a bow with an arrow nocked glanced away and towards Thor and started to ask:

“Hey Thor what was in--” He cut himself off as he spotted the form of Bruce in Thor’s arms, ”oh my God.”

At his exclamation, the two others, one that appeared to be a red and gold robot ( _a person definitely couldn't fit in there, right?_ ) and a man dressed in red, white, and blue, followed the direction of the archer’s stare and looked at him. The woman exercised more self-control and spared only a glance in his general direction.

Bruce recognized the man in the cowl and jumpsuit immediately. How could he not? Captain America had always been his hero.

* * *

_Sometimes Dad would come home late. He would burst through the door smelling like sweat and old, musty basements.  Dad was always angry when he came home late, he would shout and yell and stomp explosive steps that shook the house. Something always wound up getting broken, be it a cup, a plate, a lamp, or Mom and Bruce. Despite this, Bruce came to appreciate these nights, even if he woke up bleary and pained the next morning. Mom would always play with him, and they could be as loud as they wanted. Mom would help him heat up a frozen dinner (the kind with pudding!), and they would eat and watch TV together on the couch. And then Bruce could bring down any toy he wanted and they would play together. More often than not it was a Captain America figurine, the one that he got on his fourth birthday. Some of the paint had chipped off, and it was missing a hand, but it was still his most favorite thing. Mom would play with Einstein, Bruce’s stuffed bear that used to have some stuffing coming out of the ripped seam in his neck. Bruce put a band-aid on it and it was as good as new. Einstein was Mom’s favorite._

_“Einstein is Captain America’s sidekick, Mom! He’s not strong or dexterous, he’s a scientist!” He would remind her every time she would make the bear do a backflip or a cartwheel._

_“Oh right, sorry.” She would say again with a smile. The cheap lamp would cast a golden glow throughout the room, and the sounds of cartoons were soundtracks to their adventures._

_And then they would go back to playing, and Captain America would save another city from the Monster, the giant beast who could level entire buildings with one punch if he was angry enough._

_But Captain America would always save the day, no matter what!_

_Right now Captain America was protecting a mother and child from the Monster’s attacks. Einstein had fainted because he hit his head when he tried to do a backflip._

_“A-and then Captain America hits the Monster really hard in the face! And the Monster dies and I save the day!”_

_Bruce would always notice the sad smile that would come across Mom’s face every time he won against the Monster. He didn’t know why she was upset. It was probably because Einstein was unconscious and couldn’t help._

_And then they would both look towards the door when there was the sound of keys jostling against the lock of the front door. And then the door would open and Bruce’s nostrils would be filled with the putrid odor of sweat and would be reminded of suffocating basements. They would both stand up, and Mom would usher him to his room. And then dad would cross the threshold._

_And then there was yelling, a row that made Bruce’s throat tighten and make it hard to breathe._

_And then there was blood, and it encroached upon the golden memories of those late nights, eating at them like a moth eats at wool sweaters._

_And then Mom was gone and the Monster reigned supreme._

* * *

_He would hide in his closet, clutching the Captain America figurine until his knuckles turned white, hoping that he would come and save the day, rescue him from the Monster’s clutches._

_He never did._

* * *

“Oh shit.” The helmet on the red and gold suit of armor slid open to reveal a face underneath it. In any other circumstance, Bruce would be amazed that someone could _fit_ in there and have it still be functional, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just wanted to _leave_ , and more than anything, he wanted everything to stop; for the agony to cease.

Ross’ stared at the group’s increasing horror, and his ever-present grin morphed into a giggle, and then a chuckle, until it was an outright guffaw. It was raspy and horrid, the result of years of smoking and the woman’s boot on his chest. It was nails on a chalkboard. It was a sound Bruce would be happy to forget.

No one said anything as they watched the General devolve into mania.

“Do you...” he wheezed, “like my...handiwork?”

Bruce was a car wreck that no one could look away from.


	5. Sing for Ourselves Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got up and decided: "im going to finish this chapter today" and so that's what i did.  
> it's not proofread, so if you see something that is a blatant mistake please tell me uwu
> 
> (this chap is also pretty intense but you should expect that already)

Hands, bony and weak, fell limp around his neck, and the man slumped in Thor’s arms. Panic, brief and all-encompassing, possessed him as he worried that the man had died. The bitter feeling fled him when he noticed that the man’s stomach rose and fell minutely with each inhale and exhale. He appeared to be hanging on naught but a fraying thread, judging by his body, which was littered with messy sutures and bloodied bandages.

Thor had tried to carry him gently, attempted to prevent jostling his injuries which would consequently cause the man more pain. Despite this, blood, dark and thick and slow, oozed from deep wounds. When it dried it adhered the man’s back to his arm. He was glad he is not averse to the sight of blood, or this situation would be significantly worse than it already was.

Suddenly Thor felt extremely contrite for complaining about taking the damage for the team; he had no idea how bad it could get. He was holding a cadaverous man in his arms, with a multitude of cuts and bruises, and yet here he was, fussing about a black eye. His arms constricted around the man slightly, an act of his subconscious. Thor noticed himself rapidly becoming quite protective of him.

( _His words, raspy and weak, echoed through his head: “Because I’m dangerous”.)_ Thor decided that he was going to prove to him that he wasn’t.

The man seized in his grip and his eyes fluttered beneath closed eyelids.

Ross noticed this and chuckled-- _what a horrid noise,_ Thor thought, _like a sword on a whetstone._ Through short breaths, he said:

“It appears as if the good _doctor_ is having a nightmare.” He bit out the word “doctor” as if it was a curse.

“Who is this man?” Steve Rogers demanded. Thor perceived a slight tremor in his otherwise steady voice. Stark was uncharacteristically quiet.

“That’s a liberal use of the term,” Ross replied, “he’s not so much of a man, as he is a monster.”

Black Widow increased the weight of her heel into his chest. “What does that mean?” she asked, voice low, every syllable laced with an unspoken threat. Thor was not afraid to admit that he got the chills; Ross, however, remained unfazed. He didn’t respond and looked the spider steadily in the eye. Piercing emerald met a crazed brown, and Black Widow relented. She removed her foot and turned her sharp gaze to Iron Man, whose face was pallid. Remnants of nightmares--or were they memories?--echoed behind glazed eyes.

Black Widow spoke, and Thor detected a trace of gentleness behind her intensity. “Stark.”

She walked up to him, and carefully placed her hand on the Iron Man suit. Thor realized that the Black Widow had retracted her fangs and became Natasha Romanoff once more. Stark lurched under her touch. He blinked and shook his head to clear the fog of his stupor. And suddenly Iron Man had returned to the present. Too unnerved to speak, he raised an eyebrow at her, as if to ask “ _what?_ ”.     

“He’s not going to give us the intel we need, I need you to hack into their database. Come with me.”

Stark followed, atypically docile. Thor could still see traces of his terror-induced trance. His brow was sweaty as if he were hot, but he trembled as if he were cold. Worry lines surfaced in places where they were not five minutes prior.

“Hm, how unfortunate; it seems as if Banner’s plight reminded Mr. Stark of his bad past,” Ross huffed out a laugh as he sat up against the wall. He wiped the blood off of his mouth with his sleeve. _Banner?_ Was that the man’s name?

Thor voiced this question out loud.

“Banner. Is that this man’s name?” Ross sighed.

“I wish you guys would stop referring to him as a “man”...” his voice tapered off as Captain America moved, fast as lighting, to point his shield at the prone General threateningly. Thor opened his mouth to speak, but Steve Rogers beat him to it.

“Is. That. The. _Man’s,”_ he emphasized the word ‘man’, “Name?” He was on the verge of whispering, and his teeth were clenched. Thor felt that if they weren’t, his words would echo through the hallway, loud and thunderous. Instead, it was deathly quiet at the compound; even the air conditioner, which had accompanied the conversation as a groaning white noise, had faded into nothingness. No one spoke. No one breathed.

Ross merely smirked. The man-- _Banner_ \--in Thor’s arms twinged.

When Thor looks back at all of this now, he realizes that, in hindsight, it was quite odd that Ross did not make a more defiant attempt to keep Banner in his possession.

* * *

No sound accompanied Banner’s raspy breaths as he laid supine on the floor of the Quinjet. Occasionally, JARVIS would give the team an update as to how far away they were from SHIELD headquarters, but other than that, all was silent. Thor stared intently at the unconscious man, afraid that if he looked away from him for one second, his breathing would falter and his heart would stop. Steve Rogers cradled his head in his hands, taking solace in the artificial darkness he had created for himself. Clint was sat in the cockpit, slumped in the driver’s seat, hearing aids removed and thrown precariously onto the dashboard. Tony Stark was uncharacteristically quiet. Natasha was characteristically quiet. No one moved, all were entrenched in their own thoughts, lost within their traumatic memories.

The tension in the ship was palpable, and Thor felt it cloud his mind like a thick fog.

After some time--about an hour, but Thor was hardly keeping track--the sound of scratching, loud and ferocious, began. Thor did not attempt to find the source, intent on keeping watch on Banner. He didn’t remove his gaze until he saw Natasha start to move in his peripheral. Her hand darted out of her lap to latch onto Stark’s wrist. The scratching stopped. Romanov remained expressionless, but her eyes briefly twinged with concern.

Tony Stark’s fingernails were red. His arm was even more so.

* * *

The helicarrier is, to put it simply, an unfavorable way to travel. The air is stale and flat, much like a carbonated drink after being left out for too long. It lacks the electricity that the oxygen on the ground holds, and the lack of this energy makes Thor feel congested and woozy. When asked, Stark said that the oxygen has to be recycled, so that they can all breathe easily. Thor commends humanity’s brilliance on this, of course, he just wishes they could have done it so the air doesn’t feel so...sterile.

It’s suffocating.

His quarters on the aircraft are just as stifling. They are approximately the size of a small closet, holding nothing but a metal bunk and a dresser. The furniture is bolted to the ground to keep it from sliding around during turbulence (which Thor wouldn’t really mind if he was being honest), so he couldn’t even customize the room layout. A singular lightbulb was the source of any and all light in the room. Thor wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Director Fury, who had ordered them to get some rest.

He follows Fury’s demand. That doesn’t mean he does it well, however. Words from his and Banner’s short conversation have been glued to the forefront of his mind for hours. Six syllables--” _because I’m dangerous_ ”--remain on repeat for the entirety of his restless slumber. He manages to doze off, but his dreams are plagued with blood and gore, and a scarlet haze taints his vision when he opens his eyes.

He wakes up when they arrive at Stark Tower. He feels worse than he did before he fell asleep.

* * *

Bruce wakes engulfed in a sea of black. It swallows any light there might have once been, it envelops him wholly, so he cannot see even the simple movement of him waving his hand in front of his face. He blinks in confusion, and his chest constricts when he realizes that the same sight greets him from behind his eyelids: the view of pitch black, dark as jet. He is reminded of the times when he was on the run; when it was necessary that he slept in the wild, where there were no streetlights present to illuminate the area. This moment was much like that, an occasion of temporary blindness. However, where the sounds of wildlife would usually lull him to sleep, it was utterly silent save for his breathing and… someone else’s. Bruce’s mouth twisted in confusion. The other person’s respiration was deep and low, a timbre that could cause earthquakes.

“Hello?” Bruce called out into the darkness. There was no response.

The interesting thing about pain is that when it is constant and unforgiving and as common as breathing, is that when this pain halts, rather than bring much attention to it, the brain would much prefer to forget about the whole ordeal entirely. This is why, that if Bruce had stopped contemplating the mysterious presence of the disembodied breathing, he would have realized that there were no leather straps tying him down to an icy medical table, no suffocating band around his neck, and no twinge of pain as he raised his arms and pushed himself into a sitting position. His mind was so fixated on his current blindness and laborious inhales, that he failed to notice that his legs were quite securely attached to his body.

“Hello? Is anyone here…?” Bruce trailed off as he absentmindedly waved his fingers in front of his eyes. Perhaps Ross struck him blind, it was an entirely plausible hypoth--

_Wait._

Where was Ross? Where was _he_ , for that matter? He could have sworn he had been rescued, but maybe it was an unknown side effect of the drug they had pumped into him. An influx of adrenaline caused by his escape attempt could have triggered a sort of hallucinatory effect, or maybe he just truly was going insane.

“R-Ross?” Bruce called out tentatively, worried about the potential response that could result from his exclamation. He fully expected the cigar-smoke tone of the General to answer. Nothing could have prepared himself for what occured.

Rather than hearing the severe voice of Ross, there was a cry so loud and outraged it shook the very floor Bruce sat on. Bruce attempted to find the source of the outburst, scanning the area around him, hoping to see some variance in the vast and infinite blackness.

A glint of green, like an emerald protruding from the wall of a cave, shone in the void.

A flash of foreboding rolled over Bruce. _It couldn’t be…_

All of a sudden light, intense and disorienting, illuminated the space Bruce was in, and the endless black was replaced with endless white. And there, twenty feet away, was an acidic blotch of green, a stain of watercolor paint on a wet canvas. _It is…_

The Hulk grunted. Bruce inhaled sharply.

All that he could say was a quiet “how?”, and then a “why?”. Bruce really was not all that keen on adopting the Hulk’s monosyllabic vocabulary, but shock had a nasty habit of making it hard for one to speak. Or think, for that matter.

The green monolith snorted. “Banner stupid,” he uttered.

“How is this possible? How can _you_ be here? _I’m_ here.” _Where even is_ here?

“Hulk always here.”

Bruce gave him a scathing look, and muttered “well that’s not cryptic at all.” he crossed his arms like a petulant child, turning his brown eyes away from Hulk’s bright green ones. His brain was racing a mile a minute, devising theories and hypotheses that could explain the paradox he seems to have found himself in. It was either Hulk or Bruce, one or the other. Not both _at the same time_.

“Banner think too much.” Bruce ignored him, mumbling his ideas out loud. _So what if I think too much?_ Bruce thought, _I have to do enough for the both of us._

“You and I being in the same space at the same time just isn’t possible, how is this possible? This can’t be possible. It’s either you,” Bruce pointed at Hulk, “or me,” and then at himself.

“Banner talk too much.”

“Astute observation! Is there anything else you’d like to criticize about me, or is that the extent of your vocabulary?” Bruce found himself getting increasingly bitter, but he was always bitter when the Other Guy was involved.

“Banner puny.”

“Fuck you.”

* * *

It takes the Avengers a few days to get accustomed to normal life at the Tower. After they got back and hooked Banner up to dozens of medical gadgets, no one quite knew what to do with themselves. Stark disappeared into his lab at the first chance he got, probably working on another Iron Man suit or something akin to that. Or at least, that’s what Thor thought he did, he wasn’t allowed on the R & D floors. Natasha was the second to separate from the group (who had been sitting in the common room in silence for twenty minutes), with an abrupt “I’m going to go train.” And then she was gone, leaving Thor, Clint, and Steve alone.

“Do you guys...want to watch a movie?” Steve asked tentatively. Thor and Clint said nothing, just nodded absentmindedly. Steve put in _Beauty and the Beast_ . Thor tried paying attention to the film, but he could not get Banner out of his mind. Banner and his _words_ , the six syllable sentence that had crept into every crevice of his brain, settled itself into his soul.

_“Because I’m dangerous.”_

No one spoke for the rest of that day, or the next one, for that matter. Each Avenger had their own coping mechanisms, none of which consisted of discussing your feelings. This was a damn shame, because that was what Thor desperately needed. He had tried Steve, but the man was out of it; every few words Thor said had Steve’s piercing blue eyes wandering, turning distant.

“Banner’s condition truly does worry me…” _Not just physically; his mental state is quite concerning as well,_ Thor had trailed off in the middle of his sentence, leaving his words dangling in mid air like a torn spider web. Banner’s voice, wispy and failing, once again reverberated throughout his mind, begging for attention. He hadn’t brought it up to Steve, deciding that he had no right to share Banner’s insecurities without his consent. Despite this, the phrase kept nagging, never relenting.

Steve said nothing of substance in response, he just hummed, mind obviously preoccupied with something other than Thor, who glance at the his leader with a look of extreme solicitude. Thor gave Steve a strong pat on the shoulder, and left the room, not wanting to bother him anymore than he already had.  

* * *

Even after living with the Hulk for years, Bruce still stumbled over his name.

“H-Hulk, will you answer at least one of my questions, or are you going to keep being useless?” his tone was sharp, and he spoke like a parent disciplining their child.

The Hulk huffed. “Hulk not answer.” Bruce saw red, felt the rage boil under his skin. _Why was he so irritating? First he had to ruin my life and now he won’t even answer a simple question?_

“Fine,” Bruce said.

“Fine.” Hulk said.

Bruce stood up, planning on investigating the empty space that seemed to stretch on forever--without the Hulk’s help, thank you very much. He twisted on his heel, faced the opposite direction from where the Hulk was sitting, and took one step, then another, then another, until he felt he was an ample distance away from the Other Guy. Bruce turned his head and saw that he hadn’t gone anywhere. The Hulk was still sat twenty feet away, watching Bruce with an unreadable expression.

“Banner stay.”

“Are you doing this?” suspicion crawled it’s way into his voice, and he scowled.

The Hulk grunted. “Not Hulk.”

“What do you mean, ‘ _not Hulk’_?”

“Not Hulk fault.” he paused, then pointed at Bruce “Banner fault.”

“How is it my fault?” his temper was starting to grow out of control. He began walking towards the Hulk, noticing with some intrigue that he was actually getting closer. His footsteps echoed across the infinite space, his faux-leather work shoes clicking against the floor.

The Hulk cringed. Bruce’s pace slowed.

“Banner walk like Ross.”  

Everything fell to shit after that, in a grand display of chaos and confusion. Bruce stopped in his tracks, eyes widening in surprise; not only at the Hulk’s words, but at the shackles around the goliath’s wrists and ankles, the shackles that he had only just noticed. And then, in a second that spanned decades, Bruce watched, horrified, as lacerations and sutures and bruises appeared on jade skin that was unmarred only moments before. He watched as bones broke with ghastly pops that cracked through the air like whips. And then, _and then_ …

Words, written in green rather than scarlet, were carved into bulletproof skin.

It was then that Bruce realized that he was feeling all of this agony as well, could feel the serrated knife slice into his skin and into his muscles. It was as if the Hulk was a voodoo doll, and whatever harrowing thing happened to him, happened to Bruce. His spine turned to ice when he realized what was about to happen next. Hulk and Bruce met eyes as it happened, green met brown as a sharp blade broke skin, as it sawed through bone. Bruce collapsed on the ground, his calves nonexistent.

He and Hulk screamed at the same time, their voices harmonizing in a horrible cacophony of fear and pain, until Bruce was embraced by blissful darkness once more.

* * *

Thor couldn’t sleep. It was the third night since Banner came under the care of the Avengers, and Thor was wide awake, and he had been for 72 hours. As time crept on Thor had watched purple bruises blossom beneath his eyes; a tribute to his exhaustion.

He so desperately wanted to sleep, but Banner kept him awake. At first it was the words: _Because I’m dangerous._ He had repeated that phrase backwards and forwards, broken down each syllable, examined each phonetic sound. It was kept on a loop in the back of his mind. It was a whisper loud enough to keep Thor awake.

_Because I’m dangerous._

_Be-cause I am dan-ger-ous._

_Suoregnad mI esuaceb._

It wasn’t just that sentence, however, it was Banner as a whole.

Thor got out of his bed and walked towards the elevator.

“Floor 63, JARVIS.”

* * *

The room Banner was in was dark, lit only by the dull glow of medical machinery and a pair of eyes, glinting a bright, poisonous shade of green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruce is very bitter, if you couldnt tell


	6. Shroud Ourselves in the Cosmos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony makes a discovery, and Thor and Bruce have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my utmost APOLOGIES for not posting in so long lasjflkdg,m... this chapter has been p difficult to write & school just started so yabba dabba doo  
> (also im gonna go through and edit/format the rest of the chapters so they arent as messy uwu)

Tony Stark had been in his lab for...a while, now. He wasn’t quite sure how long. He had that same woolen numbness that settled around his extremities and nestled into his head that usually appeared after he worked for 20 hours straight, so it had been at least a day, he figures. His senses were both extremely sensitive and dull, as if the caffeine he had ingested thirty minutes prior was having an all-out brawl with his sleep-deprived mind. His arteries buzzed and the tips of his fingers were numb. He didn’t dare sleep, though, despite what his better judgment said. Tony knew that if he dozed off right now, memories - _Afghanistan, Obie, the dark and cold and infinity of space, and falling falling falling and dying until Thor struck him with lighting_ \- would envelop him, suffocate him.

So that was where he was at, right now. His eyebrow involuntarily twitched, and his fingers trembled as they typed away at his keyboard. Tony didn’t know what he was working on, exactly, he just knew that he was working. Keeping his head occupied. That’s what mattered. He just had to prevent his mind from drifting away from the equations and onto the broken and bloody man two stories above him. He shook his head. _Don’t think about it - about_ him _._

“Sir?” JARVIS requested politely overhead, interrupting his rapidly devolving train of thought.

“Not now, JARVIS, I’m on the verge of a breakthrough,” of what, exactly, he had no clue.

“I have just finished decrypting the files retrieved from the military base.”

Tony’s fingers stopped typing and rested on the keyboard. He clenched his jaw. His breakthrough could wait. Sleeping could wait. His curiosity, on the other hand? Now that was a different story. “Pull them up, J.”

Tony’s eyes widened as they scanned the man’s file - scanned _Dr. Robert Bruce Banner’s_ file, and he physically recoiled when he read the word ‘ _Hulk_ ’.

 _Hulk,_ like the Hulkbusters and the alleged monster that Ross had commissioned him to invent weapons for. _Hulk_ , like the person a _man_ turned into when he got angry.  

The Hulk was a _person_ , not a mindless beast. He had created artillery to kill a _man_. Not a monster, like Ross had led him to believe.

Tony physically recoiled away from the desktop, a cocktail of guilt and self-depreciation saturating his brain. Through this, though, he kept reading, his eyes glued to this file in a morbid sort of fascination that twisted his insides about.

He didn’t know how long he sat there until JARVIS interrupted him once more:

“Thor is currently in the room with Dr. Banner, Sir.”   

* * *

“He-Hello?”

Banner’s voice broke through the silence that lay thick between them.

The medical room they were in had a window. It began at the floor and ended at the ceiling; a wall of glass that poked holes in their privacy, that allowed the brightness of the city to encroach upon the safety of darkness. Tendrils of light flew in, illuminating the heartbeat monitor in one strand, and the foot of the bed in another. Nothing, however, lit Banner’s eyes; no, they did that on their own, flashing within the darkness like an animal’s. They were two drops of poison, splattered on a black backdrop. Thor stared at them, and as much as he tried, he could not avert his gaze. Their viridescence mesmerized him.

A glance at the bottom of the bed showed Thor exactly what he expected to see: a raised comforter down to the bottom of Banner’s thighs, and then…nothing. The blankets fell flat against the mattress, a reminder of the pain the man had endured. Thor stopped looking.

Banner’s stare was fearful, weary. He blinked along with the pulses of the heart rate monitor, which began to beep at a steadily increasing rate, an indication of his anxiety. His stomach fluttered in and out, and he shuddered with shallow breaths that wracked his entire frame.

Startling the man with his presence was never Thor’s intention, and he quickly attempted to calm Banner’s nerves.

“Hello, Banner,” he replied. The darkness elicited a whisper from his throat, rather than something at a higher decibel. This whole situation felt secretive, clandestine; and in a way, it was - technically Thor wasn’t supposed to be here. Not until he was debriefed, at least.

Banner did not reply. Thor ventured further into the room, his steps muffled by the carpeted floor.

“I hope you are feeling better--” He began.

“How do you know my name?” his words rode the wind of his weak exhale; they were quiet, unsure. Despite this, their inflection caused Thor’s voice to die in his throat.  

“Ross mentioned it,” as he stated the General’s name, Banner’s eyes widened, and the green nestled within them glowed brighter. Thor realized his mistake, and put up his hands in what he hoped was a placating manner.

It didn’t help. It did quite the opposite, actually.

“Ross? Is he here? Do you work for him? Where am I? Oh, God…” He writhed on the bed, obviously attempting to escape, and Thor rushed forth, the urge to comfort Banner overriding any logic about the situation he might have had.   
“No!” He said, desperate to prove to the man that he wasn’t a threat. Banner flinched and froze as he approached. His thrashing had caused the blanket to wrinkle around his midriff, which was skeletal and scarred. Scarlet blossomed through the bandages around his waist. Banner hardly noticed that his wounds had opened from his convulsive movements. At closer inspection, Thor found that the man’s wrists were tethered to the bed with leather straps. Briefly, he recalled his first time in an Earth hospital, and how confused he was at being tied down. How lost and lonely he was. He did not wish that same feeling to befall Banner.

Banner stared at him. Thor stared back. Green met blue.

“No,” Thor said, far gentler than he had been seconds prior, “no,” he continued, “Ross isn’t here.”

Banner gave him a skeptical look. It was obvious he didn’t trust Thor, and how could he, after all he had been through?

“I understand that you cannot yet truly trust my word, and I hardly blame you,” Thor spoke softly, voice rumbling deeply with every syllable, “however--”

“Wait,” Banner breathed, recognition flooding into his eyes, “Th-Thor?”

Thor grinned, “Indeed, Banner.” When Thor met the man’s eyes once more, they were a deep brown, rather than a vivid green.

Banner licked his lips, “Where am I?”

An orange hue began to bleed through the window as the sun peeked through the skyline of Manhattan. Thor didn’t realize it was so early, but a glance towards the digital clock on the nightstand informed him it was nearing six o’clock in the morning. The sun’s glow illuminated Banner’s face which was sallow, sickly. Every sharp malnourished angle was amplified against the light. His eyes glistened like amber, sharp and critical.

“Stark Tower,” Thor replied.

Banner’s eyes widened, and a spark of fear reignited within them, glowing bright and dangerous and _green_.

* * *

Bruce had been following the exploits of Tony Stark for years. He did it as a necessity more than anything else; Stark was the only man who had the potential to engineer something that could possibly put a dent in the Other Guy. And Bruce had to admit that his inventions were revolutionary and unique. World-changing.

Even as a teenager, Bruce read about Stark’s genius; the multitude of achievements he had accomplished at a young age, solely because he had the means and resources to accomplish them. He distinctly remembers seeing him on the front cover of a magazine, proudly standing in front of a television that he had built when he was five.

Bruce was six, then. His mother had taken him to the library for the first time.

 _“It’ll be our little secret,”_ she had said, taking his hand with a smile. It was tight; pained from the fresh bruise she had acquired just last night. Of course, it was concealed with makeup; a secret.

They had had a lot of secrets, back then. Bruce flinched as one of them was pulled the wrong way underneath his shirt as he reached out to grab a magazine. It was encased in a laminated covering, and there on the front cover was Anthony Stark, age five, proudly leaning against a television. The words “ _GENIUS HEIR TO STARK INDUSTRIES_ ” branded his mind as he read them.

Bruce remembers being confused, then jealous, then _angry_.

The public applauded Stark for being smart, they had dubbed him a prodigy.

When Bruce constructed a complex model when he was three, his father had beat him for it, called him a _freak_.

 _‘And he wasn’t that far off,’_ Bruce thought sardonically, green swirling in his vision as Thor stared at him from across the room. He was in Stark Tower so that Stark could figure out how to kill him. He was in Stark Tower to be experimented on and injected with serums and solutions until the light dimmed from his eyes and his heart stopped. This place was yet another step towards the gallows; a foot closer to his inevitable execution.

Bruce didn’t know if that was a good thing or not, for while every one of his sensibilities told him it was, told him the world would be a better place without him, there was something primal stirring within which caused him to feel a sharp pang of terror at even the slightest insinuation of death.

This primeval thing was the green film coating his iris. It was the thing that had once been both his greatest burden and greatest protection. It was the Hulk that felt this acute fear at the mention of _Stark,_ and because he was simply an extension of Bruce (or was it the other way around?) whatever emotion the Other Guy felt was felt by Bruce as well.

“Ah, um,” Thor stuttered, sensing Bruce’s distress, “it was not my intention to frighten you, I apologize -” Thor was cut off by a voice so raspy it might as well had been a whisper.

“St-Stark?” said Bruce. “Like Tony Stark?”

“The same,” Thor breathed. Bruce’s hands struggled in their bonds of their own accord, tapping against the plush mattress and twisting and wringing fingers together. Perhaps they believed they could escape the leather straps on their own, or perhaps they moved to release some nervous energy, of which Bruce was certainly not lacking.

“Am I here so he can figure out how to kill me?” Bruce asked, his voice flat and void of all emotion, though still grating against his throat.

The rising sun stained Thor’s blue eyes golden, as they widened in an almost affronted look. “Of course not,” he stated, “why would he do that?”

Thor felt as if he already knew the answer. Once more, the “ _because I’m a monster,_ ” reverberated through his skull, and sent shockwaves down to his toes.

Bruce didn’t have the time to respond, though the words were on the tip of his tongue, (and unbeknownst to him, they were verbatim to the phrase bouncing around in Thor’s head), because that was when Steve Rogers and Tony Stark entered the room.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hee hee cliffhanger :3


	7. The Gathering Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short i apoologize
> 
> also i suck at writing dialogue so this chapter is just like that ig

Steve Rogers and Tony Stark entered the room with apprehensity glistening in their eyes and worry marring their faces. Bruce recognized them almost immediately, the green haze in his vision thickening in his trepidation. ‘ _ Danger’ _ it seemed to say. Bruce was rather inclined to agree. The door slammed in their wake, and Bruce flinched at the noise, reminded of  _ steel locks and deadbolt doors and footsteps and scalpels and knives.   _

Yet the Hulk did not thrash in his mind, or beg to be let out. He was subdued, still tranquilized from the serum that had been pumped into him for an indefinite amount of time. Bruce could do nothing but stare, watch and react as the men spoke to one another. It wasn’t like he could do anything, anyway, his arms were fettered to the bed and his legs were... _ gone _ . He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to that, that empty space. The void that shouldn’t exist.

Bruce could still feel them there, sometimes. They would itch and twist and burn as if they were still very much attached to him. But they weren’t there, no matter how much his brain tried to convince him otherwise. He would always look out of some desperate plea that they would  _ maybe, just maybe  _ be there and he would glance down and they wouldn’t be. 

His fists clenched in their leather restraints, in both frustration and hopelessness. The permanence of the loss of his legs stung him, seeped into his bone marrow and into his blood and wouldn’t let him ignore it. It felt like ice had spread through his arteries.

He was brought out of his thoughts when a worried shout rang out:

“ _ Thor! _ ” said Steve Rogers, “you shouldn’t be in here!” 

“Yes, I am aware,” Thor said impassively, “I know, I haven’t been debriefed yet.” 

Steve continued speaking as if he hadn’t heard him, “You haven’t even been debriefed yet, and - “ he paused when he registered what Thor had said, “Yes, but that isn’t all! You - “ as he began to berate Thor, he glanced towards the bed. His eyes widened when he saw that Bruce was sitting up, very much awake. “Ah…” he said, flustered, “he’s awake,” 

“Yes,” Thor stated simply, “he is, very much so.” 

Tony Stark stared at Bruce blankly for a few seconds, face slack, eyes wide and haunted. He stood there, expressionless, as if he didn’t know what mask would fit the situation best. Bruce watched as he smirked forcefully in a way that  _ would  _ be convincing if Bruce hadn’t watched him construct it out of nothing. Ghosts still danced in his eyes, apparitions of the past. Memories. Bruce understood.

And then Stark walked towards the bed, his stride conveying confidence, arrogance. Everything the world expected him to be. 

“Tony!” Steve whispered urgently, “what are you doing?”.

Stark ignored him, waving a few fingers behind him in dismissal, and continued his trek to Bruce’s bedside. “Hello, Dr. Banner,” Bruce’s eyes widened, glowing even brighter with radiation,  _ he knew _ , “your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled,” Stark paused, then held out a hand, “and I’m a big fan of how you turn into a giant green rage monster.” 

Bruce flinched away from the palm Stark had extended out to him, expecting nothing but incoming pain, and his heart pounded loudly in his ears. And then what Stark said registered;  _ clicked  _ in his head and his brain short-circuited, his inner-monologue halted because he  _ knows _ . 

He  _ knows _ . Knows about the Other Guy. Knows about his body count. Knows about the property damage and the killings and the maimings and all those  _ homes _ and  _ families  _ that he destroyed. He’s going to kill him. He was going to kill him and purge the world of the monster and that would be a good thing because then he wouldn’t hurt anyone else but also he didn’t want to die - or maybe it was the  _ Other Guy  _ who didn’t want to die. This instinct of self-preservation seeped out of the Hulk and bled into Bruce, and he found himself confused as to where the monster’s emotions ended and his began. Maybe it didn’t matter, maybe they were the same. He stopped that thought before it could get ahead, because it caused a whole cacophony of emotions to stampede through his head, emotions that he would rather not  _ have  _ right now, let alone deal with _. _

“You know,” he said dryly, said as a statement more than a question. “Huh.” he paused. “You gonna find a way to kill me?” best to clear things up right now, he figured, best to know what he was in for. And besides, why else would they take him from Ross, if not to rid the world of an inherent evil?

Stark’s eyes widened. “W-what?”

“You build weapons,” Bruce clarified, “that’s kind of your thing,” he paused, “you know, killing.”

Stark didn’t seem to expect this response, in fact, no one present did. Stark’s mask crumbled, collapsed and broke. An audible gasp was heard from across the room, and Bruce turned to look instinctively. 

Bruce had seen Steve Rogers before, in the military compound, but he didn’t think much of it - the thought failed to penetrate the haze of anxiety that had settled around his brain like a blanket, merely eliciting muddled memories from his past, rather. Now that he was more lucid, the sight of his childhood hero in the flesh was startling. But it couldn’t have been him, anyway, because Steve Rogers was dead. Right?

Bruce gave Rogers a glance laced with curiosity, confusion, calculation, before turning back to Stark as the man spoke:

“Ah...not in the killing business anymore, Jolly Green,” he spoke lightly, but there was something in his eyes that weight his words down. Bruce squinted at Stark for the nickname; it irked him, made him feel off. It was a lot like teasing a mob boss; if he caught wind that you had he’d make your life hell.

Bruce had seen weapons from Stark Industries in Brazil, just before he had been apprehended. They made him understandably angry, because their job was to kill and maim and frighten, things that he was vehemently against. But it had also made him jealous, in a way. Because he could do better,  _ would _ have done better, had he had the resources. He smothered that thought before it could catch and spread. Bruce scared himself sometimes.

Not because of the Hulk. Because of  _ him. _

“Banner,” Rogers pulled him out of his thoughts, “how long…” he faltered. “How long were you in there?” 

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t know; he didn’t know if he even  _ wanted  _ to know.

Stark swallowed audibly. “Ross’ files on him said he was in his possession for six months.” 

A pregnant pause settled over the room. The only sound that could be heard were the cars outside, which had begun to creep gradually into the streets, as if the city was waking up. Perhaps it would have been peaceful, if one were watching, to observe the golden yellow cabs crawl through intersections, so small and menial and unsubstantial from a viewpoint that was 80 stories high, but it wasn’t. Because tension gathered and condensed so thickly in this room it was almost visible, because Thor’s face was wan, immobile, stony and gray, because Stark’s was taut and so very old.  _ Because it had been six months. _

“Christ,” Steve breathed, disrupting the quiet. 

Bruce didn’t know what to say or do or  _ anything _ . This information was too much. Six months.  _ Six months.  _ Half a year. 26 weeks. 183 days. 4380 agonizing, harrowing, hellish hours. It doesn’t feel like it had been that long; it feels like it had lasted an eternity, it feels like it had been mere  _ minutes _ . It’s as if his brain wants to remember every painful detail, stretch every moment out to a millenia. That, or throw the last six months away into a dark corner and ignore it, stifle it until it’s forgotten.

_ Six months. _

“Six…” Bruce began, but the words got caught in his throat. He must have looked pitiful, laying there, hands bound, legs... _ gone _ , face molded into a cast of shock. Eyes warm and green from the Other Guy. He didn’t feel like a man anymore. Not really a monster, either. Just some wild animal that wandered into a bear trap. Helpless and alone and in pain, waiting for a swift end from the jaws of something higher on the food chain.

Bruce looked over to Thor then, mouth still frozen around the last syllable of his sentence. Thor stood rigid, with a storm brewing in his eyes, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Then someone spoke from above, from hidden speakers:

“Sir, Director Fury is on the line,” the disembodied voice paused, “and yes, it is urgent.” Stark sighed. 

“Put him through, J.”

A hologram phased into existence in the middle of the room. On it was a man’s face, naturally austere and intimidating, but made even more so with the addition of an eyepatch. 

“Stark,” the man said in greeting, voice stern and very fitting to his overall mien. 

“Fury,” Stark replied.

“Romanov has just updated me on the details of your mission,” the man - Fury - said, “did you retrieve the weapon?” 

_ Ah _ , Bruce thought, heart plummeting to his stomach,  _ that makes sense _ . Stark and Rogers and...and  _ Thor  _ had taken him from Ross just to use him - the  _ Hulk _ \- as a weapon. 

_ ‘Not in the killing business’, my ass _ . 

Thor must have seen his face close off, because he jumped into the conversation.

“About that,” he cut in, “there was no weapon, Director. Rather,” Thor glanced at Bruce, and held his eye contact determinedly, “a man.” 

Bruce’s eyes widened marginally. He hadn’t been called that in a long time. Fury turned to look at him, and Bruce shrank under his steady gaze. Fury grunted in response before turning his attention back to Stark. 

“Assemble Barton and Romanov in the meeting room for a debrief, Stark. I’ll call you back when you’re all present.” 

And Bruce was left alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapters alternate title was: "hope uses a lot of unnecessary commas"


	8. The Nameless Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY FOLX. ITS BEEN A WHILE.   
> and for that i'd like to apologize. this chapter was hard as fuck to write lol 
> 
> also school is perhaps the worst thing

When he was younger, people would talk to him like he was made of glass, like one misdirected word would shatter him into millions of pieces. Their eyes always got all soft, as if even a glare would crack him, as if he wasn’t already broken beyond repair. Gentle gentle gentle. Soft words and soft eyes. Just like Mom.  
And look where that gentleness got her.  
Bruce couldn’t stand it. That cotton gaze. Round voice, no sharp edges. Like those safety scissors for kids. Bruce hadn’t been a kid since before Mom died, since her blood pooled on the tarmac. Ran down the slope of the driveway and towards Bruce as if it were reaching out to him, tendrils of scarlet like fingers, beckoning him for help. The noise of her skull popping still rang in his ears on bad nights, even now, like that resounding crack accompanying the home run he saw the one time Dad had taken them all to a baseball game. He’d said it was a thing for families to do, and _goddammit can a man not do things for his fucking family in this god-damned place?!_  
Aunt Elaine had spoken like Mom. She’d always ask him how school was that day in a honey-sweet tone. Words dripping with sugar. It made him sick to his stomach. Bruce could always feel her eyes glistening like the porcelain in the china cabinet. Tears threatening to fall. He would run upstairs to his room before they eroded him away into nothing but guilt.  
Besides, school had always been too easy for Bruce. Even more proof that he was a freak, just like Dad said. The lessons just stuck, even when he tried to not pay attention, knowledge sticking to his brain like insects caught on flypaper. 

Bruce didn’t know if he preferred soft words or hard words back then. Each was bad. He thought he’d just rather people speak to him like he was normal, because that’s all he wanted, really, to be normal.

(But he wasn’t normal, he was a freak monster abomination— _you’re a freak monster abomination, Robert, and don’t you forget it!_ )  
Hard words reminded him of Dad, then. Sharp like the razor blades and kitchen knives he would sneak into his room just in case. Directed at him by those bullies angry at him because he ruined the curve, usually the side to the main course of punches and kicks. Recently they had been spat out by Ross and not the bullies or Dad, with a tonality rusted by years of nicotine. Accompanied by stab wounds instead of the dull battery done by knuckles and worn sneakers. None of the purple or sickening swirling yellows and greens of a bruise, just red, red, _red_.  
He had been angry at words a lot of the time back then, because they stuck to his sticky brain and wouldn’t leave, like the residue left behind after tearing off a sticker. All gooey and ugly, attracting dirt and grime..

Bruce remembers that when he was younger, all he wanted was solitude. To be left alone. To not have to listen to the soft hard words all the time. He would pray for it sometimes, when he was desperate enough, even though he didn’t believe in God because if he believed in God then he was going to go to Hell, just like Dad had said. He would kneel on Elaine’s guest bedroom carpet and prop his elbows up on the guest bedroom bed and lace his fingers together like he had seen characters do on Saturday morning cartoons and talk to someone who he was afraid to believe existed. 

Bruce always felt foolish waking up the next day. Felt raw and vulnerable for showing weakness, even if the only person to witness it was himself. Back then he wore pride like a suit of armor, used it like fuel. It was his protector and motivator. Exhibiting anything other than egotism weakened the links in his chain mail, dented the metal of his helmet.

Now that pride was gone, and by extension, his armor was as well. It had been crushed to dust by Ross and military scientists. Shredded into scrap metal so that he was nothing but a bundle of nerves. Exposed. Weak, weak,  _ weak _ .

He was weak. Weak and feeble and pathetic and inadequate. The Hulk was the strong one. The Hulk was the one that had hurt -  _ killed, she was gone and never coming back and it’s all your fault  _ \- Betty, was the one that had destroyed and  _ smashed  _ entire livelihoods. The Hulk was strong and Bruce was weak, because Bruce couldn’t control the Hulk but Hulk could control Bruce. 

Bruce really had no control over anything, and that stung him to his core; rotted him from the inside out, wrung out his muscles like how one would a wet dishcloth. He felt helpless, as if he had no influence on his own life. 

He remembers being a kid and learning about plankton. Clearing up the common misconception that they weren’t all small things like microbes or blue-green algae, but really just organisms that couldn’t swim against a current; beings so weak they had to let outside forces control where they went. 

Bruce recalls being little and empathizing with these creatures, because really, when had he ever had any semblance of autonomy? He couldn’t control Dad’s rage, Mom’s death, the bullies and their fists. He couldn’t withstand the tides as they pulled him to Aunt Elaine’s, then to Aunt Susan’s, then to Ross and the Hulk. Bruce floats in the Hulk’s wake, now, dealing with the damage carved by the turbulence and chaos that he causes wherever he goes. 

He wants to be strong enough to swim. He doesn’t want to simply  _ float _ anymore.

But swimming is impossible now, because his legs had gone and left a vacuity in their absence; just two bloody, scarred stumps that tapered off into nothing. A void. Empty. 

_ Empty _ . It was a word that had resounded with him for a while, now. Bruce has felt empty for decades, as if his soul was gradually being removed, scooped out with a melon baller. Or maybe he’s just tired. 

He is always so,  _ so  _ tired. 

 

* * *

 

“Director Fury, Sir, I don’t want to come off as rude, but what the  _ fuck _ was that mission?” Tony demands as he stalks into the meeting room that is five levels below Doctor Banner. Too far from the man. Or maybe too close. Tony doesn’t know which one he wants to be right now.

“It wasn’t imperative that you knew the nature of the weapon,” Fury said, face as stoic as stone.

“Next time I would appreciate it if you gave us all the details,  _ Director _ .” Steve had shed the skin that housed the harrowing memories of his past and now donned the fresh pink one of righteous fury. He was sharp now, angry at something. Angry at Fury for putting his own team through unnecessary trauma that could have been prevented had he prepared everyone adequately.

“It wasn’t imperative,  _ captain _ ,” said Fury, mirroring Steve’s tone.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I have to disagree -”

“Moving on,” Fury cut Steve off, looking down and shuffling something out of the frame of the video. “We currently have people working on decrypting the General’s files,” he turned to Tony then, piercing him with his gaze, “Which I know you have already unravelled, Stark, so if you would be so kind -”

“No can do, Fury. I dunno what you’re going to do with the information in those files, but if I’ve learned one thing about top secret government organizations, it’s that they can’t be trusted.” Tony was leaned back in his chair, his pallid skin a stark contrast against the black leather. He hadn’t slept in a while. Or eaten, really. All he’s consumed is hard liquor cut with coffee.

“We only need it to protect the world from something you don’t know much about - the Hulk is a dangerous creature that needs to be restrained.”

“ _ Bruce Banner _ is a man that deserves as much freedom as you and me,” Tony replied heatedly.

“Who happens to have what amounts to a nuclear bomb ready to be released at any moment.”

“What makes him any different from any of us, Fury?” Steve hopped into the conversation, voice quiet but commanding. “I’m a super-soldier, Stark could build a literal nuclear bomb if he felt so inclined, Thor is a god from Norse myth, Barton has superhuman eyesight, and Romanov could take down a crime syndicate with her eyes closed and hands tied behind her back.”

“What makes him different is that he lacks any control over his abilities.” Fury said.

“Then why not teach him to control this… Hulk?” Thor finally spoke. He had sat at the sidelines of this argument, simply witnessing. He wanted to aid Banner’s cause, but was bereft of any information that would help. His decision to jump into the ring was mostly impulsive, a spur of the moment action that accompanied his realization that the reason Banner thought he was a monster, was because the rest of the world believed it as well.

“Thor is definitely strong enough to keep him in line, worst case scenario.” Clint was leaning on his arm, elbow propped on the table, a picture of nonchalance. His eyes were piercing, though. Serious.

“And if he isn’t, there’s always the serum Ross used.” Fury looked to Natasha, whose back was ramrod straight, green eyes sharp like broken glass. At her words, he seemed to consider something; sat back in his chair and took a deep breath.

“What you all seem to be suggesting...is that we make the Hulk an Avenger,” He sounded resigned.

“It’s better than what you would do with him,” Tony was still on edge, and it showed through the venom his voice was laced with. “By the way… what were you planning on doing with him? Dissect him? Find a way to replicate him? Cut him open and -”

“Tony,” Steve urged, “there’s no need to anger Fury further.” Tony turned toward Steve and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Thor cut him off.

“I like this idea, of making Banner an Avenger. Though how he would fight in his present condition…” Legless. Starved. 

...Broken.

Fury sighed, chagrined. “The Hulk has regenerative abilities. Theoretically, when Banner transforms, his wounds will heal.” 

“Do you know if he even  _ wants _ to fight?” Tony asked.

“If he doesn’t want to become the property of SHIELD, he’ll have no other choice.” 

* * *

 

 

Bruce was back in the darkness; the infinite expanse of black that made him feel surrounded and also very, very alone. It was very similar to how it was when he was young, when he would stay up late just to feel the dark on his skin, feel it swirl around his arms like ink. Back then it was the only time he felt truly secure. Isolated and  _ safe _ . 

The sound of labored breathing meets his ears, and it dawns on Bruce that he can never know what it’s like to be alone. Not anymore. Not since the gamma green bomb poisoned his blood and made him into the monster Dad said he was. 

At that thought, a growl, deep and violent, floated over to Bruce and reverberated into the empty space.

Bruce sighed, knowing who and  _ what _ originated the noise. “Hey, Hulk,” he spat.

And the infinite expanse of black became an infinite expanse of white, save for that single patch of green. The poison stain on an otherwise perfect emptiness. 

The Hulk grunted. They were slightly closer, this time around. Bruce could see the fetters around the goliath’s wrists and ankles. They didn’t rattle when the Hulk moved. There was no sound in this abyss, sans Bruce and Hulk’s voices. 

“Banner,” greeted Hulk.

“What do you want?” Bruce snarled. He turned his head petulantly away from the Hulk, and brought his knees to nuzzle his chin. Bruce hated looking at the Hulk; he was the monster Dad said he was, he was the mistake Ross said he was, he was -

A cry was elicited from the Hulk then, deep and pained and grieving. 

“Banner stop thinking thoughts like Dad’s words,” The Hulk shouted. Bruce’s head whipped to stare at Hulk, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

“W-what?” He stuttered. The frigidity of shock filled his heart. 

“Banner think like Dad,” he clarified, rather needlessly, because Bruce already knew. He  _ knew _ . 

When he was ten and living with Aunt Elaine, he thought he was being haunted by his father. Because the thoughts would keep coming and coming and repeating and repeating. His mind was a broken record. His mind was broken. Bruce was broken.

“Stop!” Hulk yelled. “Stop thinking! Banner think big thoughts too strong for Hulk to smash!” 

Bruce jumped the hurdle of shock and chuckled. The sound was grating, arid and dry like New Mexico. “That’s rich, considering you’ve caused most of them.” The Hulk had destroyed so much: his livelihood, his career, his relationship,  _ Betty… _

“No! Banner puny! Banner  _ wrong! _ ” Hulk howled. “Hulk smash Banner! Hulk smash!”

A big part of Bruce watched the creature’s meltdown, and felt pleasure. Because this is what the monster deserved. To feel the pain it had wrought on so many others. But something small, vestigial, twinged in sympathy. Weird.

“No surprise there,” Bruce said, “that’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Smashing?”

The Hulk moved to get up, face twisted with rage, and Bruce jerked back in fright, but the shackles restrained the Hulk so he could barely get to his feet. 

“Hulk smash!” He repeated it like a mantra.

Without thinking, and limbs tingling with adrenaline, Bruce stood up and walked over to the Hulk, who was still lurching in his chains. 

“Hulk smash!” 

“SHUT UP!” Bruce yelled, voice red with rage. He was so  _ angry _ . How dare the Hulk, how  _ dare he _ ? The beast had ruined his life, ruined  _ everything _ , and he had the gall to get upset? 

The Hulk stopped, and poison eyes welled with tears that didn’t fall. His face slackened, crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.

“No yelling...please… Dad…” The Hulk muttered wretchedly. No one blinked.

Then what Hulk said registered, and a strangled cry fell from Bruce’s lips. He stumbled backward, as if burned. Legs gave out and he collapsed onto his knees.

“No...you, you can’t… _ I  _ can’t...” he didn’t get to finish his sentence, because blood began to pour from lacerations inflicted by invisible knives, and spikes of pain ran through him. Scarlet, thick and slow and so  _ very  _ like Mom’s, oozed from him and onto the white floor. The red reached out, grasping, to meet the toxic green of the Hulk’s blood. Like last time, Bruce and Hulk, two sides of the same coin, two halves of a whole, screamed, and their voices mingled and harmonized. This macabre choir sounded as their legs turned to ribbons, and then -

And then Bruce woke up.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zuko voice: that's rough buddy

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [ tumblr!](%E2%80%9Dhopevandyke.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)


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